


Above All Shadows

by lemurious



Series: Arda Forged [8]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arda Forged, Bittersweet Ending, Defeat, Kissing, M/M, Sacrifice, Space Flight, Technology, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/pseuds/lemurious
Summary: “So this is what defeat tastes like. Ashes and iron.”Mairon says his farewells before Melkor is off to the Void - though in a slightly different manner than will be recorded in the histories of the Eldar.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Arda Forged [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839175
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Above All Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likethenight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/gifts).



> The title is from Samwise Gamgee's song at the doorstep of Cirith Ungol:
> 
> _Above all shadows rides the Sun  
>  And Stars forever dwell  
> I will not say the Day is done  
> Nor bid the Stars farewell_
> 
> With great appreciation for [likethenight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight), my incredible beta and continuous inspiration.

He keeps on running. Up the ladder, along the ramparts, through the cacophony of rage and wrath, between cannons rhythmically thudding below and fires blazing above, now pierced by a sudden screech. _Manwë must have sent his Eagles_ , Mairon notes with eerie calm, as if he were leading a battle exercise, and vaguely adds a footnote, _and this is how we fall._

While he is weaving through the defenders, the Western gate far behind him caves in to the battering ram. His forces roar as they surge into the yard trying to block the broken gate, falling in front of shining banners now splattered with blood, the invading army waving their swords in determined, joyful slaughter.

Mairon notices his combat medics scatter in terror, and his heart clenches with the sudden compulsion to dash over, assume the familiar position barking orders while already planning the upcoming surgeries and calculating the costs of rebuilding the gate.

But routine will not save him, not this time, and Mairon jumps to the ground, forcing the door into the hall in the Eastern wing of Thangorodrim, stumbling towards the cloaked figure standing at the foot of the throne.

Melkor turns to him in a blur, and suddenly Mairon is aware that he is shaking, gasping for breath, words refusing to come out of his throat.

“So this is what defeat tastes like.” Melkor wraps his arms around Mairon and continues without a shade of emotion in his voice. “Ashes and iron.”

Mairon can no longer remember what message he was so urgently bringing to Melkor, but how could it matter when they are losing, when Mairon is losing – his lord, his leader, his lover, the only one he would ever follow.

The Maia looks up in such desperation that Melkor feels ice crack in his chest. He fears he is going to break beyond repair unless he can make Mairon regain his habitual determination.

He thinks of them working side by side through the daily concerns of running an empire, of heads bent over the latest engineering project, hands clasped in fiery triumph, eyes ringed in black and yet lighting up at the sight of each other in those first exhausted, hungry years as exiles from Valinor. Yet this is the first time Melkor feels at a loss.

Well, they have always found solace in strategy and tactics.

“You can still pass through to the Eastern foothills, and if you collect the fifth and seventh armies in an orderly retreat, you should be able to reach one of our satellite fortresses with minimal skirmishes on the way.” Melkor’s voice echoes in the hall.

“The Western Gate has been breached by the main vanguard, Maiar in the lead, the courtyard is held in a pitched battle, but they will be here within a few hours at most.” Mairon responds, the semblance of a normal battle report helping him find his words.

And if in the next breath they start speaking over each other, it does not matter, because all they are saying is – _I love you, I am sorry it has to end like this, I am sorry for each time I have wronged you and each scar I have left, I am sorry that my love will not be enough to shield you from this final defeat._

Now their tears are falling freely as Mairon stands on his toes and catches Melkor in a burning, biting kiss, and they taste of salt and ashes and iron.

But there is no mercy for such as them, and they are brought out of their reverie by sharp claws shearing their sides.

Thuringwethil, in her battle armor, but with no weapon, and not a shade of fear at rudely interrupting her superiors, only a grin so bright that Melkor winces at the sight.

“You have time to run yet,” she announces with a crooked curtsy, laughter and tears glinting in her eyes. “I will buy you time. Gotta take my favorite baby for a ride.”

Her baby dragon that torches entire cities with a single breath. Ancalagon the Black.

 _Now that might just work_ , Mairon thinks and already begins scheming their escape, when Melkor disagrees.

“There will be no escape for me on this land. Our Enemy would drown Beleriand in blood to reach me, and would think it a fair price.”

“But you can still buy time for him.” Melkor continues, and Thuringwethil looks into the Vala’s eyes, two sets of obsidian-black crossed as swords in a fight, and Melkor turns his gaze away first.

Thuringwethil grasps Melkor’s arms and whispers: “It will be an honor”, and then is pulling Mairon away in a bone-crushing hug, now speaking loudly, forcefully, to get through the din in his ears.

“He needs you. Our armies need you. Our people need you. There is nobody else who could make them survive this defeat.”

Mairon wants to object, to say that he could not care less about his people. Except for the sinking realization that he _does_ , that even now he catches himself thinking of how to best orchestrate the retreat and where they could establish refugee camps to prevent famine. He knows it for a trick his mind employs to avoid thinking about the present.

Thuringwethil smiles again, a soft, kind smile that Mairon knows is only for him, the same he saw in the workshops of Aulë long before they built wings for her and an empire for themselves.

“When you think of me – of us – remember that I could not have been happier if I had spent an eternity in Aman.”

She turns away and actually starts _skipping_ towards the exit, followed by Melkor’s voice, heavy with grief.

“Mairon. She is going to buy us time. You have to use it well.”

“ _You_ use it!” Mairon yells. “Don’t you _dare_ play a martyr! There’s still hope – ”

“Not for – “

“Yes, _for you._ “ In a heartbeat, Mairon realizes what they must do. “You said, there is no escape from you _on this land_.”

Melkor’s breath hitches at the thought.

Since the evening he had first looked at the fire Maia in Aulë’s forge, he could feel that Arda would not be sufficient to contain their ambition and their desires. So once they had their mines and their dams and their foundries running in the intricate clockwork of a booming empire, they set their eyes on the Void.

First came the dragons, their beasts of fire and iron, but they could never reach high enough, could never race fast enough to clear the Door of Night and float in the Void.

A thousand years of attempts to take flight, and long nights in the forges powered by the endless blaze of the Silima. Ten thousand discarded starships, shaken apart at launch, burst in a fireball, flipped upside down and hammered back into the ground. A hundred thousand mistakes that had sent them crouching into hiding and then picking their tools again, and ordering the Balrogs to bring back the remains.

And at last, a roar that sent the entire fortress rushing out onto the snow looking for the source of the terrible noise. One, two, three separations, chunks of metal raining on their heads as the ship kept rising between the stars blanketed by the white glare of the engines.

And two minds thinking as one. _All the battles we may win and lands we may conquer, the miracles Mairon crafts in his surgeries, the power Melkor harnesses from his Silmarils – are but raindrops in a thunderstorm, snowflakes in an avalanche compared to the power of a starship blazing through the night._

They set out to build an entire fleet, but have only managed to finish one ship when they heard of the March from Valinor.

Melkor rushes out the door, through the lower dungeons to the shipyard, Mairon’s hand firmly clasped in his fist as he is shouting orders to his Balrogs, not letting go even as he presses the levers and pulls on the ropes, as he grabs the armor they have built together expecting to wear it side by side, watching Arda cruise below them; not letting go even when the skies suddenly darken as the power of Silmarils is cut off from lighting up the fortress to filling the engines with fire.

This is when the last tower falls, Ancalagon’s dead body crashing into Thangorodrim and bringing it down in a shower of masonry.

Thuringwethil has no more time to give.

Mairon clamps down on his grief, as he forces himself to think of the more immediate threat - the ship not halfway filled with fuel, and the main force of the Valar right outside the walls.

He looks around in a frantic attempt to come up with some way to delay the attack, and sees the Captain of the Balrogs walking towards Melkor with an air of finality, the battle noise drowned out by his heavy thread.

“My lord. If this is the last time we can serve you, we would have you know that we have never regretted following you out of Aman. No words can express what you have given us. The freedom to live our lives as we choose. ”

Melkor grasps the Balrog’s outstretched hand and feels a sharp sting behind his eyes at understanding what he is being offered.

“There is no need for gratitude” – his Captain continues. “Let us now pay this last debt, and may your journey take you far beyond where the notes of the Song could ever reach.”

“On my command - over the wall!”

In perfect synchrony, six Balrogs spread out their wings and raise their whips in a flaming salute, and jump over the courtyard wall straight down on their attackers, greeted by cries of dismay.

At last the starship is loaded with fuel, and Melkor waves at Mairon to get in.

“After you, my love.”

Mairon’s eyes turn dark with sorrow.

“I can’t”- he stutters and points his arm at the carnage around them.

At the river rushing from the highest peak, its dams broken, knowing that it will run red with blood by morning.

At Ancalagon’s smoking carcass covering a tiny rider with a crooked smile.

At the flames that are getting extinguished right outside the walls, greeted by shouts of triumph as the last battle of the Balrogs is drawing to the end.

His captains – his friends – have sacrificed themselves in a heartbeat to prevent him from being captured. Now, he realizes through the pain tearing at his insides, he can only repay them by rescuing what is left of their armies, because Thuringwethil was right. He is the only one still capable of protecting them.

And though Mairon does not dare to hope, Melkor _understands_.

“This is why you are the greatest general Arda has ever seen.

Go. Save our armies. And then, _come back to me.”_

And he is kissing Mairon as if neither of them would be allowed to draw another breath for as long as they lived.

“I will always be yours.” Mairon chokes out.

Gently, Melkor pries open the death grip of Mairon’s arms and takes off a ring to push it on the Maia’s slender finger, closing the fist to prevent it from slipping off.

Mairon is fighting for his breath, eyes unseeing.

“ _Listen to me.”_

Melkor’s command makes Mairon focus again, and clench his fist so hard his nails drew blood from the palm.

“You will be their lord now, and it is so easy to get lost between the minor treacheries of running a kingdom and the slow defeat of years. I was fortunate to have you to prevent me from slipping away, but you will not have anyone. So _promise me._

No matter what you accomplish, what battles you may win, what titles you may hold, _remember where we truly belong._ Remember the night we first saw the Void open for us and watched our starship rise. And when you build one that can follow, I will be waiting for you in orbit, Menelvagor burning red under our feet”.

Mairon stands up straight, dark fires dancing around his face and his voice bright and brittle as steel.

“I will bring you armies that could conquer the stars.”

Melkor places the briefest of kisses on Mairon's forehead, turns around and walks towards the hatch, shoulders slumped as if under a terrible burden, and the void that opens between them threatens to swallow Mairon whole.

_No time for grief yet, nor for revenge,_ he spells out the thought word by word, making it ring in his ears, making it give cadence to his steps, through the door, to the dungeons and out to their secret refuge into the mountains.

Right foot. Left foot. The rhythm of survival _._ Eventually he will crumble and howl his grief, but now he has a promise to keep, and he thinks that it will be the only memory to sustain him through the empty Ages stretching out in front of him.

Stepping out of the underground passage, Mairon hears the unmistakable low rumble of the engines shaking the very roots of the mountain, and momentarily even his pain is forgotten, as he turns to see the starship disappear in a cloud of smoke.

He starts whispering the countdown sequence they both have learned by heart so many years ago.

Now, all hatches are closed and locked.

Now, the main engine is lit up by the accessory engines.

Now, the buttresses holding the ship fold and fall away.

Now – _three - two – one_ – _and rise!_

The starship lifts off, gaining speed at a breathtaking pace, to the Void, to the night, on wings of flame, as it dissolves in tears and Mairon cannot quite tell if they are presaging the grief yet to come or rejoicing in a desperate escape - above all shadows to a thousand suns, where one day he too will follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always very much appreciated :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Clamor Answering Reverberation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415730) by [Mertiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya)




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